Selfishness
by the classicist
Summary: The missing scene from the end of 9.08, so spoilers for that. Ruth and Harry have a heart-to-heart


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing – everything courtesy of Kudos Productions. Spoilers for 9.8. The missing scene – be nice and review, as it's my first attempt at a Spooks fanfic.

He knows it's her even before she speaks. No one else would ever look for him here on the bridge. It has always been one of their special places, their private places, one of the places they come to when the world is collapsing around them and they don't know what to do. He'll miss this, he realizes suddenly…

"Hi," she whispers as she reaches him, not sure what else to say. Harry turns to face her, a slight smile on his lined and tired face. "Hi," he replies simply. Ruth leans against the balcony, and gestures to the phone that he is still clutching in his hand. "Not bad news, I hope? At least, not more bad news." She is making small talk, and she knows he can tell – but what do you say to the man who has given up everything for your life mere hours ago? His smile fades as he recalls the conversation he's just had. "The Home Secretary," he explains gently. "I believe his exact words were, "The buzzards are circling." There's going to be a full investigation – into me, my career-"

Ruth hisses in anger. "Bloody bureaucrats," she spits. "After everything you've done – the lives you've saved, the terrorists you've brought to justice. And now they're just going to throw you to the wolves?" She doesn't approve of what he has done today, of the things he has broken, but the thought of people prying into Harry's life still turns her stomach. He is an intensely private man and an investigation will sully that somehow. Sometimes she thinks that part of Harry's charm (for charm he has) is that he is only revealed in snippets – his favourite drink, his plans for a Grand Tour, the affection he holds for his dog. Things it can take years to learn. Knowledge that makes her feel special and included in his life.

"Hmm," he replies. "It seems so." Suddenly he feels very tired. Exhausted, even. Harry passes a hand over his eyes, and looks out over the glowing London skyline. "I'm getting too old for this, Ruth." His voice is so sad and he looks so lonely that Ruth can't help but place her hand over his, which is lying on the balcony. She feels a shiver of surprise run through him at her touch: after all, it's the closest they've come to affection since… the funeral. But he doesn't make any attempt to pull away, and wisely continues speaking. "The Home Sec says I have his support, but whatever the outcome of this bloody investigation, I doubt I'll stay in the Service."

It's worth speaking the words out loud just to see her head jerk up in… what? Anger? Disappointment? Grief? He doesn't know which it is, and neither does she. It is impossible for her to imagine the Grid without him, just as, all those years ago, it was impossible for him to remember that she had left for good, that she was not coming back. At last, Ruth manages to quell the irrational sob that is rising in her throat and murmurs, "You're resigning?" He shrugs and his face twists into a bitter, almost cynical smile.

"I prefer 'retiring'. I would have been due in a few years anyway." Ruth sighs, wanting to protest, but he shakes his head. He doesn't want to be convinced today. "You shouldn't leave this way," she insists, finally, unable to prevent herself from making some small comment. Harry doesn't reply, and eventually she gives up. "I only wanted to thank you, for today," she explains quietly. "You didn't have to do what you did – every instinct must have been screaming against it – and I realize I sounded very ungrateful…" She stops. She is avoiding the issue he's just placed before her. This isn't what she planned on the way up here. These aren't the words she wants to say to him.

Harry speaks now, in a low, calm voice, and she realizes that this decision doesn't faze him. Not like it would have done a year ago, two years ago, back in the past, when everything between them was still simple and wonderful and unsaid. "Actually, I did. The thought of him hurting you was intolerable, whatever the consequences of the, er, other option." The way he justifies himself, so simply, as if it's all so obvious, makes her forgive him at once, even if he can't look at her. She can't hold back her tears any more, and so she lets them fall silently, determined not to give him any hint that he has provoked such emotion from her. They stand in silence for several minutes, both working up the courage to say what is on their minds. Then Ruth clears her throat, and says shyly, "I told him you'd asked me to marry you, and that I'd turned you down."

_Now_ he looks at her, positively astonished. As far as he knows, she hasn't told anyone else. Just another thing she has kept secret from everyone. All in a day's work for a spook. "Why?" he forces himself to ask. She gives a little, bitter laugh, and explains, "I suppose I was trying to convince him that it wouldn't work. I was trying to prove to him that you had no reason to care about me any more. I thought that if I did that, then Albany would be safe. You would be safe." Harry wraps an arm around her shoulders, trying to express to this woman, whom he has always loved, that her words are not true. But she hasn't finished yet. She goes on speaking, as if she is unburdening her very heart. Almost like a strange confession, where he has somehow ended up playing the part of the priest.

"He told me to say yes to you, Harry. To be selfish, for once." Her voice breaks, and she can't speak for a moment. The wind is icy cold, and Harry uses this as a silent excuse to himself to hold her closer. "Oh?" he prompts coolly, not sure he wants to hear further details of her tète a tète with his former friend. He feels her nod her head against his coat, and she straightens her shoulders. "But he was wrong. I _was_ being selfish. Refusing you, Harry – that was selfishness." With a single sentence she has stunned him, as she has done so many times before. He doesn't understand. "You've never been selfish in your life," he scolds her gently. "You wouldn't know how." _Unlike me_, he thinks. _Proposing to a woman nearly twenty years younger than me, and then punishing her when she so rightly turned me down!_

Ruth leans back to look him in the eye, frowning disapprovingly at what she sees as a very clumsy attempt at flattery. But at least she has recovered her composure, enough to elaborate on her earlier words. She flushes as she explains, and Harry can barely keep the fascination that her beauty creates in him from showing in his eyes. "I couldn't bear to lose you again," she admits in a trembling voice. "The job we do, the dangers we face… I was terrified of having my heart broken again, so I convinced myself that it was better to be numb. Better to be dead inside." Everything slips into place. The missing piece is fitted into the jigsaw puzzle, and suddenly he can see it all in perfect clarity. "Oh, Ruth," he whispers, wanting to tell her that he understands, that he forgives her. She raises her hand, and the words die in his throat.

"Please don't say anything," she begs softly. "Let me finish. I thought that if I wasn't your wife, it would be easier to see you put yourself in danger, to possibly watch you die. But then today happened. Letting you go alone to John was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I had no idea if you were going to come back alive. I saw clearly, for the first time." She lays her hands on his shoulders, as if wanting to make sure that her next words are impressed upon him enough. "It doesn't matter whether I'm your wife or not, Harry; I can never be numb where you're concerned. I love you."

They are the words he has wanted her to say for so many years, but since her refusal, the doubt has crept in so much that he can scarcely believe he is hearing them now. She takes his stunned look for one of rejection and instantly removes her hands, stepping backwards as if scalded. "I'm sorry," she babbles. "I had no right – not after the funeral. I'm sorry, Harry, so sorry." He senses what she is going to do before she does it, and seizes her wrist before she can flee. He has done this only one before, years ago, before her enforced exile, in anger and desperation. _"You think I'm a limited man,"_ he'd told her then. And he still is limited. Expressing his emotions has never been easy, especially to this woman. His proposal, after all, had hardly been romantic. He hasn't even told her that he loves her yet. Ruth lets out a surprised gasp as his strong hand closes around her slim wrist and her red mouth shuts abruptly. "Once," he says, slowly and clearly, "you told me to leave this as something that was never said. Something wonderful that was never said. But you know – I will always love you, Ruth."

And suddenly, she has closed the gap between them to wrap her arms around his neck in an embrace he hadn't previously thought her strength to be capable of. "I think," she murmurs, "that we've always been married, in some way, Harry. We just haven't realized it until now." She is right. No one else has been privy to all his private thoughts and non-PC comments over the years. No one else on the Grid knows what his favourite brand of malt is, or that he prefers Keats to Blake. She _is_ his wife. He grins wickedly and kisses her hair. "Wouldn't hurt to make it official, though," he muses teasingly.

She laughs into his shoulder, all tears and grief forgotten. "No," she returns wryly. "I suppose it wouldn't."


End file.
